She Deals in Chaos
by mholub00
Summary: And she's had enough. (One-shot)


Heads turn when the bell above the door rings, a natural curious reaction for a new comers arrival. It's the eyes that stay on her, that keep watching as she workers her way between the tables, that she holds her head high and ignores. The click of her heels is heard even above the hum of bar noise- laughing people and sliding chairs and clinking glasses and the two guys in the corner that are almost at each other's throats.

She watches them watching her with a slightly seductive, mostly mysterious look that clearly says "stay away," but, to those with a death wish, might be read as "please come closer." Under the bounce of the cascading curls and the way the black shirt clings to her curves, she knows that none of the bar flies would ever realize that ten minutes ago she had been comfortably watching _Pirates of the Caribbean_ in sweatpants.

None of the bar flies, of course, except him.

"You dressed up for me, how considerate," he says when she gracefully collapses on the stool next to him, dropping her purse on the counter. He flinches at the thud it makes on the wood. "What, do you have firearms in there or something?"

He nods at the bag in question and she replies by giving him that look, the one he has classified as being distinctly hers, the one that says "shut up and get me something to drink." He flashes her a sort-of smile, finishing the last of his whiskey and motioning to the bartender to bring hi two more.

"How did you know it was me?" She turns to face him, assessing the damage the night at the bar has done to this point and deciding from the fact that he's acting somewhere between asshole and douchebag, but not quite hitting the bastard stage, and that he still has his shoes on that she should be able to get him back to the tower with minimal difficulty.

"You walk too quietly," he states as if it's a well-known fact, taking a sip of his drink with a shrug. "And you smell like the roof and stars and lemon shampoo."

She hesitates only briefly on the way to bringing the glass to her lips, an unnoticeable pause if it wasn't being looked for. "What do stars smell like?"

"You," he says, shrugging again.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He faces her, turning the stool so he can lean on the counter and squint into her emerald eyes. "Why are you here?"

"You missed dinner." She stares right back, her gaze not leaving his. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

The laugh that follows is a short and dark sound and she catches herself wishing he would laugh for real again. "Are _you_ okay, Natasha?"

She tries not to react to how bitter and spiteful her name sounds coming from his drunken lips.

"I suppose," she says after a moment.

He laughs with that awful sound again, turning away from her. "Well, I'm not."

The whiskey glass is empty again and he pushes it across the counter. She is silently grateful he doesn't ask for another.

"I'm actually fantastic, Natasha."

Her stomach goes to knots and she senses the balance of the room shift around her.

The men in the corner both that were fighting only moments earlier are laughing it out over some poorly conveyed hunting joke. A couple two tables behind them begin the argument she decides will end their relationship for real this time and she can feel the boyfriends gaze on her back. Out of the corner of her eye, the playing card the man slides out of his plaid sleeve molds unnoticed into the rest of his hand and by the relaxed movements of his muscles, he thinks he's going to win.

And in front of her, Clint has skipped the douchebag stage entirely and she knows, as he narrows his eyes and furrows his brow at her, that what comes next will not be pretty.

"I'm fan-fucking-tastic, okay? I don't need _you_ to babysit me!" His voice is already starting to elevate and she notes that his breathing has picked up and thinks she may have underestimated just how much he had to drink. "I'm not a fucking child, Natasha! I'm not some delicate little kid that needs you to hold his hand!"

"Clint."

"I'm just the guy who screwed up and you, _you especially_, can't fix that with a fucking promise that tomorrow is going to be better because it's not! TOMORROW IS NOT BETTER!"

"Clint, please."

"DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE TELL ME THAT YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FEELS LIKE BECAUSE YOU DON'T! YOU DON'T KNOW_ANYTHING_!"

He's standing now, towering over her and she feels smaller, feels people watching, feels her grip on the still full whiskey glass tighten and she knows it will break soon if she doesn't let go.

"Go home, Natasha!" he yells with an air of command. "Go back to your perfect new life with the guy that tried to kill you and fucking Tony fucking Stark and Captain Honesty and just leave me the hell alone! You're smart enough to do that, aren't you? They taught you that in fucking Russia, didn't they?"

She doesn't mean to but the glass shatters and it's almost in slow motion that she watches the shards slide across the floor and the amber liquid creep toward the edge of the counter. He's still yelling but she's stopped listening, stopped caring, and the cuts on her hand are starting to sting. The blood drips slowly down her porcelain skin.

He yells her name again, spitting it out as if the syllables themselves are evil, and she's tired of it, of him acting like he's the only one in the world that's having trouble figuring everything out. She's tired of the arguing and the yelling and maybe, for the first time, of him, or at least whatever version of Clint he's become in the last month because it's not her Clint. But he's crossed a line and this time she's not letting it go.

The first drop of blood hits the counter and she slams her eyes shut, blocking him out. There are too many people to fight like she wants to, to throw the punches and leave him truly beaten, so she takes a deep breath and counts one…two…three…four…

**SMACK!**

Her open palm connects with his cheek and it's so satisfying that for a second she forgets that she used the hand she just cut open on broken glass, leaving traces of red on his skin.

But it's shut him up, so she stands. Someone across the bar starts a slow clap and another person wolf whistles and she can't believe she didn't anticipate the whole bar falling silent.

Lifting her purse over the spilled whiskey, she decides she doesn't care and turns to his dazed expression.

"Get your head out of your ass, Barton," she half snaps, half hisses. "Then you can come apologize."

The ringing of the bell is lost as the door slams behind her.


End file.
